She Came in Through the Bathroom Window
by EccentricSoundsFun
Summary: Being homeless was never on Ava's bucket list. However, neither was being labeled a freak at birth, a host of near death experiences, or meeting the Winchesters. Thankfully, good can come out of at least one of those. Reviews are more than welcome!
1. Chapter 1

Being homeless was never on my bucket list. In fact, I specifically have the opposite written down. I can find it in my coat pocket right now, and I do. I dig in the lint-lined pocket with one gloved hand and unfold the crumpled scrap of paper. Smoothing it out, I give a quiet snort of laughter that morphs into a chest-deep cough. I grimace in pain and clear my throat, ignoring the vision of red that I imagine now resides in my trachea.

 _It would probably benefit me to sign up for something under Obamacare,_ I scold myself, gazing longingly at the diner across the street. _Then again, doctors, nurses, exam rooms..._

The scenario plays in my mind, a mild one at first. The ever cheerful Doctor (with a name I'll never remember, so Doctor will suffice) strolls in like the sun smiled at him personally this morning. Small and a bit hunched, bald, with glasses that magnify his eyes to cartoonish proportions, his presence immediately calms the sore and suffering. It's a routine check up, complete with physical examination. My burgundy peacoat comes off, along with my shoes and tights.

 _Gloves, too,_ he says jovially. Why this man wants my gloves off so badly is a mystery to me, but instead of asking for clarification, I shake my head.

 _Come on, now. I've got to make sure your fingers work properly,_ he coaxes. The statement is nonsensical, seeing as I don't know medical jargon, but it still terrifies me. I clutch my hands to my chest, balling them into tight fists and tucking them beneath my arms. Giving a final shake of my head, I make a break for the door, and much to my despair, the curious doctor swipes one of my gloves. The sight beneath elicits disgust and horror before giving way to ugly, green dollar signs in his eyes.

"From there, it's a one way trip to Area 51 and an existence as nothing more than an urban legend," I mutter, rubbing my arms for warmth. The red, neon sign over the diner buzzes in the crisp air, promising the only warmth I'll allow myself tonight. As I shift my weight from foot to foot, I hear the faint click of the few coins in my pocket. My stomach emits a desperate grumble that carries on for an embarrassingly long time before subsiding into a defeated bubbling. Heeding the less than subtle hint, I cross the street towards the brightly lit storefront. Windows span the majority of the building, providing an open view into a warmer Friday night, one that I'd like to be a part of. Seeing as I'm not invited without a fee, I tightly clutch the money in my pocket, give myself a quick sniff, and straighten my tired shoulders before walking inside and tripping over the welcome mat.

It happens before I even get through the entryway. My toe gets trapped beneath the thick rubber, leaving the rest of me hurtling towards the ground at an alarming rate. Against my frantic slow-motion wishing, the floor rises to meet me with a loud bang, leaving my chin bruised and my brain rattling in my skull. Sadly, the brain-rattling isn't the worst part. No, that honor goes to the dozens of eyes doing nothing to hide their stares as I regain my composure.

"No, that's okay. No one get up. I'm fine, really," I grunt, stumbling to my feet. As I do so, I notice two more pairs of eyes take a peek at me before returning to their conversation.

 _Looks like the position of least rude has been won,_ I think. _I know where I'm going to sit._

Brushing off the already holey knees of my stockings, I cross the floor to the counter and wave at the waitress conversing with my two new best friends. The split second of annoyance I catch in her eyes hints that they must be cute. Even better.

I will openly admit that I am rather small, and thus have to form a game plan for getting in the bar stool before actually doing it. Game plan formed, I monkey my way up onto the seat, only wobbling once before securing myself. A quick glance to the side reveals my counter pals are two men in well worn jackets and button downs, one with short hair and one with long, and both extremely caught up in whatever they're talking about. They don't even look my way, which, in all honesty, is understandable. I look like a hobo that raided the dumpster at Forever 21. I try to imagine the smell of a hobo raiding Forever 21's dumpster, but somehow end up making myself hungrier.

"What'll it be, darlin'?"

I look up to meet the friendly gaze of a blonde twenty-something in a perfectly, fitted, striped dress and, in support of my theory that all work uniforms are ridiculous, a white visor indoors. Bright, red lipstick frames a mouth full of perfectly straight teeth, and thick, black mascara draws my attention to vivid, blue eyes. She'd be stunning if not for the too wide smile. I find it hard to return the gesture, and instead form a squiggly grimace. Her smile falters, but returns to its disturbing brilliance. A moment of awkward ensues as I realize she asked me a question.

"Oh! Uh..." I reach into my pockets and pull out the handful of change. It doesn't amount to more than a dollar. I quickly read through the chalkboard menu over the waitress's head. _Rats._

"Uh..." I gaze longingly at the array of pie in the freezer that stretches across the counter and cover my stomach with my hands, hoping to muffle its whining. "Just a...just a water, please." I hope no one can see my face slowly reddening to match my coat. The waitress clears her throat and shifts her weight, clearly not a good sign.

"Sorry, honey. You gotta order something if you want to stay here," she replies. The tone of her voice doesn't reflect sympathy, instead hinting at something I can't place. Her eyes squint for less than a second, and I see something reminiscent of suspicion. I'm rusty at social cues, so I stare at her blankly.

 _Why do you want me gone so badly? Do I offend?_ I wonder. She continues to stare me down, and even before she turns her back on me, she's won. Knowing that wishing won't make more money appear in my pockets, I choke back a watery sigh and scoop my coins back into my coat. _No food tonight,_ I think. As I'm stretching to touch a toe to the tiled floor, one of the men beside me speaks up.

"She'll have a slice of pie," he tells her. His voice is a bit gruff, and it makes me jump. I turn my attention to him, unable to comprehend the statement.

The waitress takes a moment to turn back around. "What kind?" The response is almost a sigh, and I'd be irritated by it if I weren't so hungry. My savior turns green eyes on me and raises an expectant eyebrow.

When I don't speak, he gives me an air nudge, which I shyly avoid. "Tell her what kind of pie you want," he coaxes, giving me space.

My tongue falls limp in my mouth and crashes into a pool of drool. The lighting in the freezer is suddenly _perfect,_ casting the most flattering light on an assortment of crusts: latticed, fully covered, decoratively folded on the edges. Right in the center is a perfectly golden, intricately weaved crust that leaves glimpses of spiced and glazed pieces of apple. I swear I can see it sparkle.

I swallow the gallon of saliva I've produced and point, wordlessly, at the magnificent pie. Like a child, I look to my savior for encouragement. Unbelievably, I don't faint when he smiles.

"A girl after my own heart." He points towards the pie. "Alright, a slice of apple. I'll take one, too," he adds, peering at the pie with interest. The man beside him groans, causing him to whip around to face him.

"What? _What?_ I can't enjoy some pie?" he asks defensively.

The other man shakes long locks out of his face and sighs. "Dean, we don't really have _time_ for pie," he says softly, trying to communicate something with his eyes.

"She gets to!" Dean protests. As the waitress slides a small plate in front of me, I pull it towards me protectively, staring wide-eyed at the now arguing pair.

"Well, _she's_ not on a _deadline_ ," the man replies. To me, he says kindly, "Enjoy your pie," before whispering to Dean, "Come on. We need to leave." As the words leave his mouth, the waitress gifts Dean with his own perfectly timed slice of pie.

 _Something is really off here,_ I think, watching their interactions. _Too well timed. Too perfect. What's wrong here?_

"Aha!" Dean says triumphantly. "Pie. I will eat my pie, and _then_ we will leave. Pie first-" The other man cuts him off.

"The _world_ after?" The sentence catches me off guard, and I choke on a bit of pie. Appearing to have forgotten my presence, the other man peeks at me over Dean's head, smiles apologetically, and ducks back down into whisper mode.

"Yeah, that sounds about right," Dean agrees, lifting his fork.

"Shut up, Dean," the other says, slapping the fork back down on the counter. "This is important. Can't you get it to go or something?"

With a shake of his head, Dean replies, "Sammy. You know I can't drive and eat pie at the same time. I've tried, and it doesn't work."

Sam sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Alright. Alright. You eat your stupid pie. I'm going to..." he struggles for words and shrugs. "I don't know. I'm going to try to do something productive." With a shake of his head, he rises to his feet. At full height, he towers over the diner patrons. Suddenly, I feel _very_ small.

Straightening his jacket, he crosses the diner to the door.

"How's the pie?" Dean asks, causing me to jump again.

I peer at him nervously and look down at the pie, giving him a thumbs up.

"Not a big talker?"

Feeling my face redden, I point to my still chewing mouth. _I don't talk with my mouth full,_ I think at him. His mouth forms a small "o".

"Ah. Okay. Well, I'm Dean," he announces, sticking out a hand. "Dean Winchester. Sorry about my brother. He's a fun-sucker."

Choking down the, admittedly, overzealous chunk of pie in my mouth, I accept the hand after a moment's hesitation. My worn, dirty white gloves surprise him, but he politely says nothing.

"Ava Gordon," I respond, allowing the smallest of smiles. "He seems nice," I offer.

After making a so-so gesture with his hand, Dean returns the expression in a dazzling fashion, with only a refreshingly small twinkle of pity. "You know most of these places, not including this one, do coffee for fifty cents. Or have it 'pending'. People are usually nice that way."

I find myself unsure of how to respond, and instead return my hands to my pie after thanking him again. He accepts, and raises a perfectly assembled bite of pie to his lips.

Raised voices draw my attention to the front door, where Sam is blocked by a squat, balding man. A pleased smirk crosses the little man's face that is almost funny, save for the cool, calculating look in his eyes. I turn fully around on my stool and hold my pie close, eating as I watch something unpleasant unfold. The men stare each other down for a moment, muttering things too quiet for me to hear. As they speak, the little man's face begins to distort into a horrifically ugly expression that sends a shudder down my back. The little man blinks, and my plate crashes to the floor.

My choking gasp attracts Dean's attention. "You alright?" he asks, putting down his fork.

Ignoring the newly staring crowd, I turn to Dean and whisper, "His eyes. Look at his eyes."

Dean follows my pointing finger and swears. "Shit. Sam!" Rising to his feet, Dean reaches to the small of his back and draws a pistol from beneath his jacket. In a split second, deafening shots are fired and the diner becomes a war zone. People are divided into those hiding beneath their tables and those diving for Dean and his brother. Blue, green, and brown eyes turn obsidian, transforming average people into strong, ruthless monsters. They carve a path through the innocents, heading straight for the Winchesters. Blades are drawn and sprays of blood coat the once white tiles. _Blood._ I can't stand the sight. A teenage girl is cut down a few feet from me, and her blood flies across my face and hands, staining my gloves.

I begin to scream. My shrill voice pierces the wave of fearful cries, gaining a second of attention from some of the monsters near me. At first they move as if to strike me, but a sharp sound from behind the counter stops them, and they return to ignoring me. I consider leaving my safe place beneath the bar until a figure hops over it and comes to stand on four-inch, black heels in front of me. From my vantage point, the heels give way to shapely legs in nude tights beneath a striped skirt and apron that appear eerily familiar. Nails tap in succession on the counter above me. The figure bends at the waist until an abundance of bright red hair appears in my vision. I briefly consider giving the hair a good yank and making a run for it before the figure's face comes into view. Gray-green eyes flit across me, sizing me up. A woman with curtain-length lashes and a familiar red smile watches me like a cat with a mouse.

"What _are_ you?" she purrs. I silently will myself to melt into the counter as she reaches for me. Her nails brush my knee and I kick her away before sprinting to the door. Unfortunately, a knot of monsters with Dean and Sam at the center blocks my path. I stumble over an outstretched arm and my boots skid through a pool of blood, sending me screeching towards the floor. Centimeters from its surface, I'm hauled back to my feet and contorted into a choke hold by the redhead. Scanning the carnage for help, my eyes fall on the only two left fighting.

"Dean!" I yelp before my air is cut off again. He glances over his shoulder before doing a double take. Brow furrowed in anger, he barrels through the monsters around him, firing shots as he goes.

"Let her go, Abbadon!" he growls, staring at her down the barrel of his gun. I roll my eyes up to chance a glance at the woman behind me. Her face creeps into view and I react like a tweaked spring.

" _Whoa,_ no. Black eyes! Black eyes!" I squeak, flailing in her arms. The action only makes her grip me tighter, and I'm not able to do anything but weakly slap at her arms. She laughs and I feel her chest vibrate with it. Gross.

"Why?" she asks coyly, tightening her grip around my neck.

"Because she's innocent," he answers, holding his aim. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Sam silently moving to flank us. So does Abbadon.

She turns towards him, flipping all of her sulfur-scented hair in my face. "I don't think so, sugar." The words catapult Sam into the wall, crashing into picture frames and dragging them to the floor with him.

"Sam!" Dean yells, conflicted between helping either of us. He returns his attention to Abbadon and I. "Let. Her. Go," he says with renewed fierceness.

"You don't want me to do that," Abbadon warns.

"Why not?"

Abbadon's lips come close enough to my ear to make me blush. "Do you want to tell them or should I?"

The question genuinely confuses me, and I fall limp in her arms trying to understand it. "Tell them...what?" I crane my neck to stare at her blankly.

At first, she thinks I'm bluffing. "You...you're really going to play stupid on this."

"Actually, I'm not playing," I say with complete seriousness.

"Alright, fine." She looks at Dean and laughs. "I can't believe you can't tell, but she's not human."

All of us fall silent, and I mentally kick myself. "Look, I didn't get to enjoy my pie, and honestly that is the worst excuse you've ever given me not to shoot you," Dean scoffs.

"I'm not trying to keep you from shooting me, exactly," Abbadon protests. "I'm just saying. You don't want me to let her go. She's dangerous."

Doubt flashes in Dean's eyes, and my stomach clenches in fear. He looks at me quietly for a moment, and suddenly Abbadon crumbles behind me. I gulp in great lungfuls of air and choke on it as it irritates my soon to be bruised throat. Sam appears from behind me and lifts me off the ground, practically carrying me towards Dean and the door. Mere steps away from safety, I feel an arm reach out and trap my ankle in a vice grip, throwing Sam aside. I hit the ground hard and listen to my ears ring while I struggle to catch my breath. A puddle of blood smears as I'm dragged through it, and I turn on my back to greet the squat little man that started this mess. My gaze snaps to a primal blade in his hand, raised to strike, and I panic. Ripping my gloves off, I slap my hands on his face, tightly clutching his doughy skin. He pushes through at first, leaving his face hovering inches above mine. I stare into his black eyes and concentrate all of my willpower.

Evil satisfaction becomes pained terror in seconds. Red radiates from my hands and through his face, pouring from his mouth, nose, and eyes as it reaches them. His skin becomes pliable beneath my fingers, and I stifle a gag as it begins to drop on me in pieces. My grip tightens as he screams, and I close my eyes, saving myself from weeks of nightmares. On top of me, his body begins to thrash like a beached fish, kicking and slapping me hard enough to leave bruises. After a few seconds, his body falls still. When I open my eyes, I'm holding a clean skull poking out of a dead body. The sight makes me shudder, and I push it all off of me. Pulling myself to a sitting position, I feel a generous amount of liquid flow off of me and resist the urge to vomit. The room is dreadfully silent, and I look up to see both boys staring me down, guns blazing. Abbadon silently gets to her feet and smiles.

"Just remember, darling. I wouldn't have killed you. They will."

With the sentence, she vanishes, leaving me frozen at gunpoint.


	2. Chapter 2

It is, by no means, an ideal situation. Both Winchesters, guns in hand, are staring me down like I just ate their firstborn child. Not a pleasant feeling, but far more pleasant than having a bullet in my chest. They're silent, but their guns don't waver, so I remain frozen in their sights. My hands raise in surrender, which raises their guns higher.

Dean's voice is low and cautionary. "Put 'em down, Ava."

"They're not-I won't hurt you," I whimper, watching my hands tremble in the light.

"Just...put 'em down," Dean repeats, his voice almost a sigh. His expression is hard, but there is the smallest hint of sadness in his eyes.

I feel tears in the edge of my vision and fight to keep my chin from trembling. The Winchesters aren't even looking at me anymore. All of their attention is focused on my hands. The things are alien to me, a foreign presence in my body. Though they match my skin tone, their veins are lined in an inky black that forms a map on the skin, filtering out into my individual fingers. I lower my hands in shame.

"Why are you looking at me that way?" I ask softly. "You're looking at me like I'm one of..." I gesture towards the headless body beside me. "Them. I'm not."

I can see a line of thought forming on Sam's face. "Dean, maybe we-"

"Don't start, Sammy," Dean scolds without looking at him. "I know you saw what she did."

"Yeah, but..." Renewing my faith in humanity, Sam seems clearly uncomfortable with the idea of killing me.

"She's not human," Dean says shortly.

The sentence brings hurt tears to my eyes, and I clench my hands into fists. "But I'm not a monster!" I protest, resisting the urge to wipe my tears. "I may not be like you, but I'm _sure_ not like them! What kind of person murders someone for self defense?" I whine, sniffling for effect.

"Someone that's seen what happens when you let something like you live," Dean replies.

I can feel my hands shaking in anger. "Some _thing_ like me? What are you, racist?" I spit, stalling for time as my mind races. "Can you imagine what my daily life is like? I doubt it. I can't even touch my own _face_ without burning myself! I just-" I can tell anger is putting them on edge, so I change my approach. With a few hitching breaths, I can feel tears running freely down my face. "I just need my gloves!" I wail, letting myself cry in great, heaving sobs. "Please, please just let me have my gloves."

There is a long wait between the beginning of my furious sobbing and the first sign of a reaction, but I play it through to the end. Tears drip from my chin onto my coat, rewetting blood that has begun to dry and causing it to spread with a watered down consistency. Gross as it is, I let the snot run, reigning it in just enough to avoid forming bubbles.. I don't know if I can keep a straight face with a bubble in my nose.

Eventually, my pathetic display takes its toll on Same. While Dean stands his ground, Sam squats to the floor, feeling around blindly while his eyes are focused on me. He cringes every time he hits blood and nearly slips a few times. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean discovers his brother's sneakiness.

"Sam. Sam. What are you doing?"

Sam casts Dean an irritation glance. "Getting her gloves," he mumbles.

"What? Come on, really?" Dean almost lowers his gun in disbelief.

 _"What?_ Look at her," Sam protests, lowering his gun so he can navigate the battlefield. "She's sitting in a pool of blood crying hysterically. I think we can afford to give her the gloves."

"Yeah, well, don't bitch to me when your _face_ is a pool of blood," Dean mutters, adjusting his shooting stance.

I sniffle encouragingly, ignoring Dean's comment, and wait patiently for Sam to approach with my soiled gloves in hand. He leans towards me warily, and I use the moment to shift my weight so that my legs are pointed more in Dean's direction. As he holds the gloves out to me, I smiled gratefully and reach for them, leaving just enough space to entice him to lean closer. Once he does and I've got a hand on the gloves, I kick out, sending him rolling backwards and blocking Dean's view of me. In that split second, I turn on my heel and sprint for the door, relishing in the chorus of, " _Damn_ it, Sam!"

I may be small, but I'm quick on my feet, so by the time they have a clear shot, I'm out of the building and into the shadows, heading straight for a well known alley down the street. It's begin to rain, and once I'm in the clear, I open my arms to it, letting it wash away the carnage that puddles at my feet, ignoring the alarmed gazes of passersby.

"That was far, far too close," I breathe in relief, practically dancing down the alleyway.

It's at this point that I learn exactly how terrible I am at hiding, and how ruthless the Winchesters are when it comes to chasing down a target. In hindsight, kicking Sam might have made it personal.

I stare down the alley at two sincerely pissed off figures back lit by street lights, knowing full well that I am in trouble. With my cute cover blown, I have only one option.

"Okay, I'm sorry I kicked you in the face," I sigh, letting my shoulders slump in defeat.

In unison, they lift their guns and advance towards me.

"You nearly broke my nose!" Sam complains, shaking a trail of blood away from his mouth.

"Yeah, and you deserved it for being stupid," Dean interjects.

I begin to back away, hands held away from my sides. "Would it help if I said ' _Please_ don't kill me?" They continue. "Pretty please, maybe?" No effect. Anger claws at me and I stomp my foot.

"Alright, _fine!_ Shoot me. Whatever, I don't care. Just make it quick, alright? Twenty-three years under the radar and this is how it ends."

Melodrama seems to strike a chord with Sam, who slows to a stop and looks at Dean helplessly. It's a number of seconds before Dean returns the glance.

"What?"

"Have we ever actually heard of someone dying by face melting?"

The question causes genuine confusion in Dean. "What?"

Sam lowers his gun and looks at him sheepishly. "I've never read about someone being melted to death. Not like what she can do."

"So..what does that-wait, are you serious? She just broke your nose and you _still_ want to help her?"

Sam sighs in frustration. "Almost broke it. And no record of killings means that she's never hurt anyone. Or that her kind hasn't. They've flown under the radar completely invisible until now."

I raise a hand.

"Yeah, acid hands?" Dean calls on me, flicking the barrel of his gun upwards.

"If it helps, I'm pretty sure I'm the only one like me," I confide.

"It doesn't help, but how do you know that?"

My eyes shift warily. "Google."

Dean rolls his eyes. "Look, Sam, if we let her go, we'll regret it later. You know that," he assures Sam with a knowing glance.

"But what if we keep an eye on her? Watch her and make sure she doesn't need to eat people or anything. She doesn't seem like the type to kill for sport," Sam comments, waving his gun in my direction.

"Watch it!" I warn, ducking away from the weapon. "For the record, I've never killed for sport." I cup a hand around my mouth and continue. "My uncles used to try to take me hunting. You know what I said?"

"No?" Dean guesses, conflicted as to why he's still talking to me.

"No is what I said! Look, I don't enjoy having this ability. I've got the scars to prove it. Please. Give me a shot." I pause and squint. "Wait. Bad wording. Give me a _chance_. Much better."

The comment results in a stalemate that lasts a number of seconds. Dean takes no chances, keeping both his gun and his eyes on me, while Sam's gun is lowered and his attention is focused on his brother. I know with one of them distracted I have a good chance of making a run for it, but honestly, I don't want to. Running for the rest of the night just seems exhausting. To help my case along, I look at Dean pleadingly.

"Come on, Dean. You saw me and your first instinct was to give me pie, not shoot me. Your instincts are on point, and you didn't see me as bad then. Doesn't that mean something?" I ask.

"That's because you've got this whole helpless, homeless thing going on. How do we know that's not just an act?"

I scoff, clearly offended. "An act? Really? Do you think I'd smell like this if it were an act?" The brothers share an uncomfortable glance. "Don't be gentle. I know I stink, but I stink because I haven't had access to running water in a week. It's disgusting, and I hate it, but it's all real. Could you expect a life any different for someone like me?" I have to stop to cough. The sound is raspy and wet, making me grimace in disgust. I can feel my chest becoming sore with the effort as it turns in to a coughing fit that causes me to double over with my hands on my knees. I raise a hand. "Hold on -cough- I'm not -cough- done yet. Just -cough- give me a -cough- second."

"Dean, she's sick," Sam mutters. "If she's telling the truth, she'll just get worse staying out here."

"Okay, no. Your argument was for letting her live, not letting her live with us. Is there a bleeding heart convention in town or something?"

Sam simply glares at Dean, who shakes his head sternly. "I'm not going to let something as dangerous as her into the bunker because she _might_ be telling the truth and she _might_ be sick."

Before I can object to the statement, Sam whispers something in Dean's ear that results in a complete change of direction. His expression softens, and his gun lowers reluctantly. Sam seems to have his brother wrapped around his finger. I can appreciate that.

After a short inner debate, Dean holsters the gun. "Alright, here's the deal. You get to live."

I open my mouth in an exaggerated grin. Dean holds up a hand to stop me from speaking.

"For now. But it'll be under our watch. You can come back to the bunker with us. Depending on-what?"

I lower my raised hand. "Can you explain to me why you live in a bunker?"

"...No. Depending on how you do, we'll-" Dean sighs. "What?"

I lower my hand again. "Do I get to find out what you guys do? Are you secret agents or-"

"Stop. Stop with the questions. No, we're going to keep the interactions to a- stop looking at me like that, Sam -to a minimum until _I_ decide we can trust you." He growls in frustration. " _What_?"

As my hand lowers, I use it to hide my growing grin. "My last question, I promise. Who wears the pants in your relationship?"

The question renders Dean speechless, and his mouth opens and closes like a fish. Finally, he shuts it and covers his face with one hand.

"Come on. Just come on," he says, turning on his heel. Sam opens his mouth to speak, and Dean silences him. "No. _No._ I hate you."

Holding on to my small bit of luck, I follow closely behind the boys in silence, giving Dean ample time to process his decision. I know better than to push my luck, so when we come to a stop in front of an enormous Impala, I keep my comments appropriate.

"Ten bucks says the CD in the drive is Led Zepplin."

Dean turns a full power scowl on Sam, who shrugs sheepishly. "Get in the car," Dean grumbles, crossing around to the driver's side and slamming the door behind him. I pull open the backseat door with more effort than expected and find myself nearly thrown on the ground by the door's weight. I crawl to my feet, turning down the helping hand that Sam offers, and take a seat inside. Before I can lean out to grab the door, Sam swings it shut for me. I feel like a child.

As Dean turns the key, resulting in an exhilarating roar, Led Zepplin's "Gallows Pole" picks up in the middle of the song. A knowing grin spreads across my face, and I look at the rearview mirror, where Dean frowns petulantly. As his face reddens, he switches from iPod to the radio. Confident in my safety, I buckle my seatbelt and lean back against the seat, making myself comfortable for the ride.

I awake later indoors, but still in the car. Looking out the windows, I can see at least a dozen other vehicles parked around us, each an unmistakably valuable collectors item.

Rubbing my eyes, I mumble, "Where are we? Did we stop at a car show? Man, you've got weird priorities."

Sam laughs, while Dean answers, "Nope. This is the bunker." The sentence isn't finished before I hop out of the car to investigate. I cross the massive length of the garage in seconds, coming to stand in front of a pair of dark, intricately carved double doors.

"This place doesn't lack in showmanship, does it?" I call back to them excitedly.

"Hold on, don't get all hyper on me," Dean replies as he shuts his door. Instead of waiting for them to catch up, I push against the doors with all of my weight.

Needless to say, a hundred pounds doesn't make them budge.

"Easy, tiger," Dean says, coming to meet me. As I struggle against the massive doors, he and Sam each push one open effortlessly, leaving me stumbling into an open parlor. Catching my footing, I take in the magnificent sight, frozen in time.

"Dude, you guys live in a piece of history," I say over my shoulder. "How cool is this?"

Expecting more of a response than silence, I turn to face them, and my face falls in disappointment. "Oh, come on guys, really? I thought we were past this," I whine, shrinking away from their raised gun.

"Sorry, but can't be too careful," Dean says with a shrug. "Downstairs. Let's go."


	3. Chapter 3

All things considered, I emerge from the shower with far less burns than usual. I clasp my hands in front of me carefully as I enter the kitchen where both Winchesters wait with guns clearly on display.

Yes, I know you left me in a far different situation. Forced downstairs at gunpoint, I think? That's how things were going, until I begged for a shower. No one, especially Sam it seems, can say no to a girl small in stature and drenched in watery blood and grime. So, I got a shower, some loose clothes that kept me insanely warm, and the promise of a bit of food, since I hadn't gotten a chance to finish my pie.

I use the fluffy, blue towel to ring out my hair, letting its curls scrunch up a bit so I at least look a little bit presentable. I shake my wet locks out of my face and shoot them my best smile, hoping for at least one in return. Nothing. Perfect.

"So...are my gloves dry, or..." I trail off, clasping my hands behind my back, seeing as that seems to be all they can focus on. Sam is the first to register that I've said something.

"Well...they _were_ dry-"

"Were? Sam, I heard the dryer go off!" Dean says with exasperation.

"It did, but-"

" _Sam._ You are _literally_ killing me right now. _Literally._ "

There is a moment of tense silence between the brothers, and they do little but glare at each other for that time. I can see Sam's jaw clenching and unclenching with sass unsaid, and Dean's eyes boring into Sam with a serious warning glance. I briefly consider going to explore the rest of the bunker while they're having eyeball to eyeball communication. Before I can act on the, admittedly, bad impulse, Sam rolls his eyes at his brother and turns his attention to me.

"The blood wasn't coming out. So I tried washing them again with bleach. Hopefully, at least more of it will come out this time," Sam explains apologetically.

"You're too kind," I say, slathering on the flattery. Turning to Dean, who's been watching me like I'm some sort of snake waiting to strike, I say, "Since I've got some time before I can sleep, how about some food?" With the question, I take a step forward and proceed to trip over the ridiculous length of pajama leg I've got in front of me. When I go careening towards the hardwood floor, Dean's first instinct is to reach out and catch me, which he does. The only problem is that my hands slap onto the arms of his leather jacket and he recoils like he's been bitten, leaving me to hit the floor face first. I lay with my nose crushed into the floor for a bit, contemplating the life decisions that have brought me to this point, while Sam yells at Dean and rushes to my side to help. I raise a hand to stop him, the avoidance of which sends him reeling backwards into the table. I glare at him out of the corner of my eye.

"I'm fine, thank you," I assure him. Rising to my feet, I pull out a chair at the dining table for myself and pat the table beside me, looking at each Winchester in turn. "Sit," I say simply, pointing at the two chairs beside me. Sam obliges, but keeps his distance, while Dean remains standing and, well, glaring at me. Determined not to be intimidated, I point harder at the table, and when he doesn't respond, I threaten, "If you don't sit down right now, I will touch you and leave the ugliest freckle you've ever had, I swear to God."

Whoops. I ruffled his feathers. "Is that a threat?" he asks dangerously, reaching for the small of his back. Outnumbered and defeated in the "my penis is bigger than yours" contest we're apparently having, I sigh.

"Dean, please just sit down. If I'm going to stay here as a prisoner or otherwise, there are things you both need to understand about me to avoid things like, well, this," I explain, gesturing to the present situation. "Please? Just hear me out."

With a sigh, Sam comes to my rescue. "Come on, Dean."

"Dude, _stop._ You're being ridiculous," Dean scolds. "I don't know if it's her boobs or her tiny-ness, but something about her is making you stupid, and I need it to stop," he commands, pointing an accusing finger at his brother before turning it to me. "As for you, if you're emitting some weird kind of pheromone that I can't smell, stop it. Now."

I scoff. "You...you can't smell pheromones. That's sort of the point."

Dean is silent for a moment. "Shut up," he says, yanking the chair beside me out from under the table and making a point to make himself extra comfortable before settling into the seat.

I groan quietly, resisting the urge to roll my eyes. _It's like I'm babysitting._

After a moment of awkward silence, I speak up. "Allow me to do a demonstration." I proceed to poke the table. I poke it, prod it, slap it, and run my hands all over its surface in an almost invasive fashion, looking from Sam to Dean and back again as I do so. Once I've thoroughly made my point, I take one finger, showing that it's the same finger for showmanship, and touch it to my chest briefly, wincing as I feel and hear my skin crisp. It strikes me as a bit satisfying to hear both of them gasp. Ignoring the stink of burning flesh, I lace my fingers on the table in front of me.

"Now. What did we learn?" I ask calmly, though I'm on the verge of tears from pain.

"You can touch wood without killing it," Dean says, crossing his arms. I wave my hand, waiting for more elaboration.

"But you can't touch people, not even yourself," Sam adds.

I sigh. "Yes, that's the basic point I made. Let me explain. I can touch clothes," I demonstrate, grabbing my shirt gingerly and moving it around, "furniture, objects, etc. I cannot touch anything living. So I can water a flower, but I can't hold a bouquet. I can feed a dog, but I can't pet it. I know these things from experience, and no, I won't tell you about it."

"So when you touched my jacket..." Dean trails off, clearly uncomfortable.

"You were in no danger. I grabbed your jacket on purpose so I wouldn't accidentally grab your hands," I confirm.

Sam shoots his brother the worst look, and Dean squirms beneath it. Finally, his pouty frown gives way to a sheepish expression.

"Oh. Sorry," he says softly, unable to meet my eyes. I accept his apology with a smile and a nod, and we sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes. Satisfied with his gesture, Dean rises to his feet and crosses the kitchen to the refrigerator.

"So you're hungry, right?"

"Well, my pie ended up on the floor in a pool of blood, so..."

Dean shoots me a look over his shoulder. "Just yes would have worked, you know."

I grin. "I know."

With food in my stomach and gloves on my hands, I let myself stretch and yawn, clueing the boys in to my exhaustion. "Do you have any rubber bands?" I ask sleepily, grasping the empty air for effect.

"I don't know," Dean answers. "Why? I don't get what this-" He mimics my gestures. "Is supposed to mean."

I scoff. "It means I need something to secure these because sleeping with them unsecured tends to result in burns," I explain, adjusting one of the gloves so it doesn't fall off. "Trust me, you don't want to see the consequences of that."

"I kind of do."

" _Dean!"_ Sam scolds as he pushes his chair back under the table.

"What?"

I shake my head. "Forget it. Where am I sleeping tonight?"

The brothers share a knowing glance and Sam nods with a sigh.

Dean claps his hands together with a satisfied smile. "Alright then. Follow me, Ava."

Dean leads and Sam follows me through a series of rooms and down into a sizeable library. I skim titles as I walk past, excited for a number of reading options. Unfortunately, by the time we dead end at an odd shelf, my main concern is no longer books. I squint at the shelf suspiciously before Dean blocks my view of it. When I become curious enough to ask about it, he swings the section of shelf aside like a door, revealing a dark space beyond. With the flip of a switch, he illuminates a seemingly normal desk in the dark.

"Sit," he commands, pointing towards the desk. The demanding tone catches me off guard and I recoil from it, clearly offended.

"Excuse me?"  
My tone (and the hand on my cocked hip) catches Dean off guard and he backpedals, stuttering a couple of words before covering his eyes with one hand. _"Please_ sit?"

I smile graciously in response and walk around the desk to the other side, where I begin to sit before shooting straight up.

"Whoa _no!"_ I exclaim, hopping away from the chair. "What the?! What?! No!" Garbling words and half sentences, I point in alarm at the cast iron manacles and collar chained to the underside of the desk. Finally, my jumbled thoughts come together enough to form a single sentence.

"What the _fuck,_ guys?!"

Dean glares at Sam, who's trying to hold in a fit of giggles. The giggles slip out every now and again, but once Sam can keep a straight face, he addresses Dean.

"So she's _clearly_ not a demon," he assesses, waving a hand in my direction. The comment strikes me as odd.

"Do demons have an old school handcuff fetish?" I ask with growing concern. "I'm beginning to worry about your impression of me."

Dean looks to Sam helplessly, who bites off a burst of laughter and points down. "Look at the floor," he says gently.

I oblige, and move off the edge of a circle to see the whole picture better. "What...is this?"

Pulling the desk away from the marking, Dean explains, "It's a devil's trap."

I squat to the ground and run my fingers over the faint image. "What are all of these symbols? I mean, it looks like a pentagram, but it's _really_ detailed. How much time did you spend on it?"

Dean's brow creases in thought and he crosses his arms. "Not important, sort of, and not important. The important thing is that it traps demons and it couldn't trap you."

"Which means..." Sam trails off, giving Dean an elbow nudge.

Dean rolls his eyes and sighs. "Which means that you're not a demon. That doesn't mean she's not dangerous," he insists to Sam.

"But it does mean that most of our weapons won't do anything to her," Sam retorts.

"What about a gun?" Dean snaps back. "Pretty sure a gun would do something."

"HELlo. I'm still here," I remind them. "Right here. Within earshot and very uncomfortable. Can we get out of the torture dungeon now? Please?"

"Well..." Sam finds himself unsure of how to answer. He doesn't have to.

I get the point. "NO."

"Ava-"

" _No!_ Are you nuts?!" I ask in a voice that's very nearly a shout. "No _way_ am I staying down here! It's creepy! And dark!" I whine pathetically.

Dean crosses his arms and his brow furrows in annoyance. "What are you, twelve? You're sleeping down here. End of story," he says firmly.

"Is that you putting your foot down?" I ask sarcastically.

"Yes, this is me putting my foot down."

"But _why?"_ I ask in irritation. "Why put me down here when you know I'm not bad? I didn't do anything to hurt you!"

My attention is drawn by Sam clearing his throat. He wordlessly points to his nose, still crusted with blood.

I roll my eyes. "Okay...I didn't do anything to hurt _you,_ Dean. Sam, I only did that because I was scared. I said I was sorry. I think I did. Didn't I?"

"That doesn't matter," Dean replies. "Look, you don't know us and we don't know you. Right now, this is the safest option." Before I can argue the point, he adds, "For all three of us."

"Ava, the less you fight it, the easier it'll be," Sam coaxes. "At least you're not on the streets."

I try to see Sam's side of it. I really do. I picture myself through their eyes, a stranger with powers they don't understand and invulnerable to the majority of their weapons, which, incidentally, isn't true, but I let them think so. I try sympathizing and understanding their position, but I can't fully process it.

"No. No, don't do that. Don't-Aw make her stop, Sammy!"

"You're the one that made her start!"

"You're the one that wanted to bring her here!"

I watch the brothers bicker through a film of tears, sniffling back great globs of snot. My chin trembles and my shoulders heave with soft sobs, but I don't hide my face. I let them see what I feel, and it causes them to bicker and fight.

 _It could almost be considered a separate gift,_ I think to myself as I creep through the shelf door and shut it behind me. The sound of the lock clicking into place jerks both brothers from their fight and I hear nothing for a moment.

"Ava," Dean warns. "Open the door."

"I'm sorry, what was that?" I ask, pressing my ear to the shelf.

"Ava." Dean throws his weight against the door, making me jump. "Open it!"

I consider the proposition briefly. "No, I don't think I will. What I will do is go upstairs, find the most comfortable bed, and have myself the best night's sleep of my life."  
He throws his weight against the wall again. _"Ava!"_

"Ava, come on. This isn't funny!" Sam adds.

"I'm not going for funny," I retort. "It was rude of you to try and lock me in that creepy room, and, let's all be honest here, it was stupid of you to fall for the tears more than once. Night!"

"Ava!" they call in unison, fighting the door with all their might.

"The less you fight it, the easier it'll be!" I call over my shoulder before heading upstairs. I explore the upper levels for a few minutes before settling on a room with a king sized bed and little else. Though sparsely decorated, the bed is comfortable and has a familiar, comforting musk to it.

 _Must be Dean's bed,_ I decide, peering beneath the covers to see if it's gross or not. _Surprisingly clean._ A box is on the nightstand beside the bed, and I sit on the bed, pulling it into my lap. _Can't help curiosity._ I run a hand over the smooth, black lid before pulling it off and peering at what lay inside.

With a squeal of disgust, I nearly drop the box before slapping the lid shut. I question my mind for a moment and take a second glance only to confirm what I've seen. I shudder and hold the box at arms length as I carry it across the room to the closet, where I hide it away on the top shelf, out of sight.

"Gross. Disgusting. Creepy. I guess I have to deal with that no matter where I sleep tonight," I say to myself as I crawl beneath the covers and make myself comfortable. Dreams come easily and quickly, and I sleep soundly over the faint yelling coming from the basement.


	4. Chapter 4

I plan the moves of the next morning very carefully. Rested and in better spirits than I have been for years, I find myself feeling extra generous and sweet. So, clothed in what could loosely be called a dress made from one of Dean's plaid shirts (Sam's were just far too big), I tiptoe downstairs to the basement, where I slip a small scrap of paper under the door .I press an ear to the shelf, listening for movement or whispered speech. After a moment of silence, I hear snoring.

Like I said, I'm feeling generous and sweet. Super nice. So, I give them a few minutes to get moving. I sit cross-legged on the floor, waiting for a hint of movement.

A little while later, I return downstairs, chilled from the morning dew outside and holding a new found friend in my hands. There's just enough space for him to fit beneath the door, so I let him skitter on through, hoping for the expected result.

Minutes later, Dean emits a cross between a yell and a screech, followed by scuffling as he rouses Sam to defend him from the horrible creature I unleashed. I'm paraphrasing Dean's words there, by the way. As my little cockroach friend hurries out the door to the safety of my arms, I hear movement and then silence as the boys find my note. even with my ear pressed to the door, I can't make out the furious grumbles Dean is making. There seems to be some reluctance in his voice that comes out more clearly when he mumbles, "We need a pencil."

 _Oh, right,_ I think. _Hadn't considered that._ "Or you can just tell me and not need a pencil at all," I coax. His silence is answer enough. I roll my eyes and make a point to stomp all the way upstairs and all the way back until I roll a small nub of a pencil beneath the door. After a moment of tense silence, my slip of paper is returned to my roachy friend and I, and I smile triumphantly.

 _Waffles or pancakes?_

 _pancakes_

The kitchen is sparse, but relatively easy to navigate. I find all the tools I need, save for a whisk, but I don't let the risk of lumpy batter discourage me. I grab an oddly bent fork from the silverware drawer and "whisk" away, stopping just short of splattering batter everywhere in my quest to destroy every last lump.

I take my pancakes very seriously.

I even make them from scratch, which is surprisingly possible, most likely thanks to Sam. His organizational skills are present in every part of the bunker, from the perfectly folded clothes in his drawers to the evenly stacked cups in the cupboards.

"You'd think he'd have bought a whisk with those organizational skills," I muter as my whisking hand falls limp. "Jesus _Christ_ why won't these things die?!" Eventually, I take to simply stabbing the cake batter which is fantastically effective.

I make sure to prepare everything-pancakes, bacon, eggs, and even some coffee- arranging it all artfully on the tabletop before venturing downstairs to let the boys out.

Yes, I'm betting my safety on a well made breakfast. With a guy that argues with his brother over eating pie, though, it seems like a pretty safe bet. To raise my chances, I open the door to the basement and let the smell of food drift downstairs. Also to raise my chances, I descend the stairs armed with an old, silver serving platter that I found under the sink and a rusty hunting knife. Don't judge. I don't like using food knives as weapons.

"Before you try and attack me, just know that I have put my heart and soul into breakfast this morning," I say as I carefully unlock the door. I'm met with silence, so when the boys lunge at me as expected, I'm hidden behind my shield with my rusted weapon inches from Dean's face. He is not prepared for it.

"Oh, and I'm also armed, by the way," I add.

" _Jesus,_ Ava! You could have taken my eye out with that thing!" Dean yells, shying away from the knife.

"Yeah, and I also could have given you tetanus. So back up!" I command. "I didn't want to come down here armed, but I figured it was a good idea." The three of us share a tense moment, and, while Dean refuses to back down, Sam and I relax.

"So...now that we've established a lack of dominance in this group," I begin, fighting a grin as I meet Dean's fierce gaze, "Can we go eat? Please? I'm starving."

Dean stands firm, but Sam passes me and heads upstairs, throwing a, "Dude, I'm hungry," over his shoulder.

I sigh at the impassive mountain in front of me. "You frustrate me," I say shortly. He shoots me a look of disbelief that's comical with his disheveled appearance.

"You frustrate me!' he snaps back. The bite in his voice startles me, and I jump. That's apparently not the reaction he was hoping for, because he backs off a bit and softens. "Last night, you kicked my brother in the face. An hour later, you're living with us. Then, you lock us in the basement, and now, you're offering us food." He widens his eyes at me, willing me to understand his point of view.

"Last night," I form a careful plea, "I was homeless and invisible. Next thing I know, I'm covered in blood and hysterical. Now I have a place to stay, but the people I stay with see me as a monster. I just made you _pancakes,_ man. _Pancakes."_ I raise my hands helplessly.

"The pancakes are _delicious!"_ Sam calls from upstairs.

I point in his direction. "See? _Delicious!"_

Dean looks at me helplessly. His green eyes are soft and sad, and I can't decipher why. Instead of meeting his piercing gaze, I try counting his freckles.

"What...what are you looking at?"

I catch the beginning of a blush creep up his cheeks as I meet his eyes. "I was counting freckles," I mutter softly.

"What?"

"Nothing! GOD! Go eat your damn pancakes!" I grow, getting behind him and shoving him up the stairs.

"Hey! I'm not done being pissed off at you!" Dean yells over his shoulder.

"You will be when you eat them!"

It is a truly fascinating experience to watch Dean eat with someone he doesn't trust. He's not delicate about it by any means, tearing pancakes apart and ripping bacon to pieces. Most of the time, his face is downcast, exclusively focused on the food, but every time he glances over at me, his expression is caught somewhere between a mistrustful scowl and a rapturous smile. I say little as I pick at my plate, ignoring the glances both Winchesters frequently give to my gloves, stacked neatly on the table beside me.

To shift the attention from my hands to literally anything else, I clear my throat and mention the box I found in Dean's bedroom.

"Pretty creepy stuff, if you ask me," I mutter as my eyes dart up to meet Dean's and flee from the furious glare he gives me.

"You went in my room?" Dean asks dangerously.

I shrug. "I needed somewhere to sleep."

"Why couldn't you sleep in Sam's room?"

I mutter a response too soft to be heard.

"What?"

"His bed didn't smell as good!" I blurt, feeling my lips squiggle in an embarrassed grimace.

"Whoa, my bed is way cleaner," Sam protests. I can actually hear the offense in his voice.

"Dude, I'm not even gonna argue with that. And you dude," Dean says, pointing at me, "That's weird. Really weird."

I move my hands about helplessly. "It's...it's not _that_ weird. Is it?"

"It's pretty weird," Sam agrees with Dean.

 _Oh great,_ I think. _I've got them agreeing on something._ I resign to eating my food in peace for awhile, looking up only occasionally to meet Dean's uncomfortable gaze. Eventually, the silence is too much.

I drop my utensils and look Dean straight in the eye. "Look, what is that creepy thing?" I ask. "Should I be concerned for my safety any more than I already am? Are you into some creepy stuff?"

"You're creepy and Sam seems to be into you," Dean mutters with a mouthful of pancake.

" _Jesus,_ Dean!"

"No, no, no. That's alright, Sam," I assure him with a raised hand. I give Dean a deadpan look as I grab one of my gloves, sliding it on my left hand. I rise to my feet and come to stand in front of Dean, who, at this point, is watching me like a hawk.

I slap him then, hard. Raising a hand to his quickly reddening cheek, Dean yells in alarm.

Thoroughly done with insults, I stand firm. "No more. I'm not going to take it anymore. Say one more rude thing to me, and I swear to God, I will-"

"Slap me without a glove?" he challenges.

I consider it, but shake my head. "No, I'll spit in your food. Or I won't make it. Either way, you won't like it. That I promise."

He's silent for a moment before his face falls.

"Dude, you look like you're going to cry," Sam chuckles, covering his smirk behind one hand.

"Shut up!" Dean snaps defensively. After a moment of uncomfortable squirming, he gives a tiny, albeit audible whine. "These are really good pancakes," he says in defeat.

I pump my fist triumphantly. "Thank you! Thank you. I take great pride in my cooking."

"As you should," Sam agrees, pointing his fork at me.

We eat in silence for a few minutes, eyes focused solely on our food. There is a very creepy, very old elephant in the room, but I'm trying to form a guess on how safe it'd be to mention. As I consider, I watch Dean eat, calculating the perfect time to ask him something that might make him mad.

"So what's the creepy bone thing?"

"Seriously?" Dean nearly spits bacon all over the table in his irritation.

I forgot to mention that I've flunked basically every math class since kindergarten.

"What? What?!" I get defensive. I get embarrassed when a piece of pancake goes flying out of my mouth onto the table. My face turns an awful shade of red and I make a grab for the crumb, throwing it as far as I can.  
"That didn't happen," I say.

"What-"

"It. Didn't. Happen."

"Fine, but why do you want to know?" Dean asks. "It's none of your business anyway."

"It kind of is. I live here and that thing freaks me out, so I'd like to know what it is."

"That's the thing, though. You don't _have_ to live here!"

I groan in frustration. "But I do! So isn't a creepy jawbone by your bedside something I should be worried about?"

"Wait-" Sam interjects. "You keep it by your bed?"

Clearly that's not normal, as Dean turns a bright red and becomes far too interested in his food. "I just keep it there in case..."

"In case _what?_ Abbadon appears by your bedside?" Sam teases.

"That would be a sight, wouldn't it?"

I swear I've never screamed so loud. The comment comes from a voice directly behind me, and I am ill prepared for it. I rocket out of my seat like someone lit a firework under me and bang both legs on the underside of the table. The painful collision sends me bouncing back to the chair, which, of course, has moved, so I disappear beneath the table, smacking the back of my head against the seat of the chair. Both boys hiss in sympathetic pain.

Not to be caught off guard, I feel around on the table for my butter knife. I snatch it up when a fingertip bumps against it and rise to my feet quickly, spinning around fast enough to make myself dizzy. Behind me are two men, very different in stature and composure. One is tall and very serious, but cute. Mussed black hair and bright blue eyes give him what would be a carefree appearance if not for the business attire beneath a beige trench coat. I frown.

 _Who wears trench coats anymore?_ I wonder, looking him up and down. His brow is furrowed and his eyes look intensely at something, although I'm not sure what. He just seems sort of confused and out of place.

The man beside him seems much more comfortable- almost too comfortable. He's a shorter, almost squat man with an ear to ear grin and a general air of mischief, though he's smartly dressed for what I assume to be a pest, judging by the disdain in Dean's eyes.

"Suddenly I feel overdressed," the shorter man says teasingly. "Boys, why do you choose to have all the fun once I'm gone?" He looks me up and down, and suddenly I feel very underdressed.


End file.
